The Scythe Cuts the Tallest Grain First
by RuBecSo
Summary: 'He knew his daughter well enough to know when she was on edge, but he also knew she'd never admit it if he asked her outright. She was so much like her mother.' The night before the wedding, Cyrion and his daughter sit up late discussing life, marriage, and survival.


Privacy was a uniquely human luxury. Cyrion had often silently marvelled at the spacious quarters of the nobles in whose manors he worked. The notion of retiring to one's personal chambers at the end of the day was a foreign one to him. For city elves, space and income were limited, the former by the high walls that hemmed them in and the latter by different, but no less impregnable walls. As such it was rare to live in more than one room, and even that was generally shared with either family or sub-letters. One learned to find fleeting moments of solitude or intimacy, and to block out the sounds of those around for the rest of the time.

At this time, Cyrion would usually have been fast asleep, worn out by a long day and a longer life before it. But tonight he lay awake, staring at the dark ceiling while his nephew slept soundly beside him. He'd slept in the same bed as Soris ever since the lad had grown too tall to comfortably share a bunk with either of his cousins. After tomorrow, Soris and his new bride would move into a bed of their own, commissioned by Cyrion from Alarith as a wedding gift and to be delivered after the ceremony. He would have to shift the iron tub around to fit it in (or more likely ask his daughter to do so, given his bad back). It would be a squeeze, but they'd manage. Meanwhile, he would move into one of the bunks to free up his own bed for Myriam and her new husband. Perhaps the awareness that this would be the last night he spent in the bed he had shared with the wife was the reason he was still awake.

If he hadn't already been away, he likely wouldn't have noticed the creak of someone getting up from one of the bunks, or the soft tread of their feet on the old wooden floor. He thought it might be his niece sneaking out to drink cheap ale with the local boys again, but then he heard the scraping sound of the old wooden chest being pulled out from its hiding spot, and he knew it was his daughter

He slowly pulled his old, greying blanket aside and swung his legs out of the bed, careful not to disturb his snoring nephew. His natural dark vision allowed him to see his daughter through the gloom, sat at their small family table, neatly laying out the contents of the chest on the wooden tabletop: four daggers, simple yet elegant, a piece of old cloth, a small pot of oil, and a well-worn whetstone.

As she began to clean and sharpen the first of the blades, thick brows knit tightly in concentration, Cyrion felt a wave of nostalgia flow over him. He had often awoken to the sight of Adaia doing the same. Myriam even had the same bed hair, tufts of tightly coiled curls sticking out in every direction.

"Are you expecting to need those at the wedding, asha'lan?" he asked softly, his voiced tinged with humour, "I don't think the celebrations will get _that_ rowdy."

She shrugged. "Might not get the chance for a while."

He winced at the accusatory look she shot him. He slipped on his loafers to protect against splinters and walked over to sit down opposite her.

"I didn't say it had to be a secret. Just maybe don't lead with it?"

Another shrug. "Same difference, Baba."

Cyrion shook his head wearily. He knew his daughter well enough to know when she was on edge, but he also knew she'd never admit it if he asked her outright. She was so much like her mother.

"Does the dress fit okay?"

She nodded. "Mm-hm. It was a bit big around the sleeves, but Roshana helped me take it in. Ma had bigger arms than me."

He smiled. "She _was_ an archer."

"Yeah."

There was a half minute or so of silence, punctuated only by the sound of Soris' snores and the rhythmic _shick, shick_ as Myriam tended to her knives.

"Valendrian said some old friends from Highever might attend," he said, to break the silence, "if they can get the travel permits. Dilwyn and Gethon. I don't suppose you'd remember them?"

She shook her head, eyes still on her work.

"Well I'm sure they'll remember _you_. Last time they saw you, you were running around naked covered in mud from the river."

Her lips twitched in something close to a smile.

"I didn't think people came that far for weddings."

"Not usually. But everyone's glad to see a Tabris wed."

Her face twisted like she'd bitten into a lemon.

"No…?"

" _Elva_ isn't."

He laughed wryly. "Elva is a panelan. She's never glad for anything."

Myriam's scowl stayed firmly in place. "She said the men in Highever are all drunks, like her husband."

He narrowed his eyes. "Is that what's worrying you?"

She looked like she was trying to bore a hole through the table with her gaze.

" _No_. It's just what she said."

He sat back in his chair with a weary sigh.

"Well," he replied, trying and failing to not talk to her like she was still ten years old, "Gethon's from Highever and he's not a drunk. And I'm sure if Nelaros were, then Valendrian wouldn't have been half as keen to have him move here."

And his family wouldn't have asked for such a steep dowry, he thought to himself.

Myriam rolled her eyes. "Like that's such a comfort."

He raised his eyebrows quizzically. His daughter sighed in irritation and laid the dagger she was working on back on the table. When she spoke, her words came in stops and starts, alternately forced between clenched teeth or tumbling over one another as they spilled forth.

"Valendrian likes elves who don't draw attention to themselves. Who don't stand up for others. Who cover their own asses. He thinks the shems will treat us better if we just ask _politely_ , instead of taking advantage of that weakness, like they _always_ have…"

"You know that's not fair." He reached out a hand to hold hers, but she jerked it away. "Valendrian just wants to keep us safe."

His daughter's eyes snapped up to meet his. They were lit up with a reflected glow in the low light, as was the case for all elves, but to Cyrion it seemed as though a fire was burning behind them.

"Do you know what he said to me the other day? When that shem was giving Davun grief, and I stood up for him? He said 'Felanmis dan beshtaris sael'. The scythe cuts the tallest grain first. Valendrian wants us to keep safe by keeping _quiet_."

There was a snort from across the room as Soris was momentarily roused by the steadily rising volume of his cousin's voice, before rolling over and falling asleep again. When Myriam continued, she'd brought her speech back to a more steady pitch:

"Safe to say anyone _he_ wants living here won't be growing too tall for his liking."

It could have been Adaia sat across from him. Grief, pride and anxiety warred within him.

"He's not _wrong_ , asha'lan."

His words were gentle, but the look she gave him made him feel as though he'd slapped her.

"Ma wouldn't want us to give up."

His eyes stung, as if he were looking into the sun. He looked away and pressed them with the heels of his hands.

"You can't change anything from your pyre." He meant for his words to sound firm and instructive, but they came out as pleading.

"I know that, I'm not a felasil!"

There was another disgruntled noise from across the room. Myriam bit down on her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. When she spoke again, it strained with the effort of softness:

"I really _do_ know, Baba. And I want to live a long, long time. Long enough to change things, to make life even a little bit better for the whole alienage. To do all the things she could have done."

He smiled at her through the tears welling in his eyes.

"You'll be hahren yourself one day. Just you see."

She smiled then too. It was that kind of brilliant smile seen only in the young, full of life and possibility, like a piece of gleaming crystal dug out from the river bed.

"I'd like that." She looked down at her hands, her grin fading as quickly as it had come. "But I'll not become an elder by keeping my head down, or not standing for anything. That's not living to change things, it's just living. I won't do that. I _can't_ do that."

He was so proud of her it hurt.

"I understand."

"And if Nelaros tries to change me?"

He exhaled with a puff, something between a chuckle and a sigh.

"I'm sure he can _try_."

* * *

Notes

Elvhen words used:

'Asha'lan' = daughter

'Baba' = 'father'

'Panelan' = 'one who argues'. I wanted a rough equivalent of 'kvetcher'

'Felanmis' = scythe, literally 'weed-blade'

'Beshtaris' = Grain (besh) + Highest (taris)

'Felasil' = idiot

Most elvhen words are direct from the Project Elvhen lexion; some are constructed by me.


End file.
